Closing in on Me
by StoryWeaver56
Summary: Garak reflects on his claustrophobia attack during Season 5's "By Inferno's Light".


**_"Closing in on Me"_**

Garak stood before his newest creation: a flowing evening gown made of Litarian satin with scroll stitching along the collar, a plunging neckline, and slits along the sides of the gown—enough to send glances the way of the wearer without giving away any secrets. The gown had been made more for the Bajoran patrons of his shop—the Bajorans of the station who didn't discriminate against him for being Cardassian. Garak knew that before long, the younger female citizens of that Bajoran populace would be pulling their mothers along to his shop, ogling at the dress, imagining what they would look like in such a gown—but he also knew that if any certain half-Cardassian woman would want to wear his creation, it would be no large feat for him to alter the neckline to better fit the thick, protruding tendons his people naturally displayed on the sides of their necks.

Garak pushed the thought aside, trying to tell himself that he wasn't interested in Ziyal. Ziyal was Gul Dukat's daughter, for pity's sake—Dukat had made sure Garak was aware he would do nothing short of kill him and leave his body for the _krinok_ birds to devour before Garak could set a finger on her. Besides, Garak had told Ziyal with little restraint that he wasn't interested in her. But, after his ordeal in the Dominion prison camp, seeing Ziyal greet him so warmly had only stirred emotions in Garak that he hadn't known he'd harbored for the sweet tempered half-Bajoran, half-Cardassian woman. No. She was practically still a child, and so naïve. Garak was a passing fancy to her, and nothing more. After all, since Garak _was _the only other Cardassian resident on the station, Ziyal naturally felt comfortable in his presence, being half Cardassian herself. The lone tailor knew the feeling.  
>Garak assured himself once again that Ziyal was much too young for his interests, but he couldn't let himself be oblivious to the fact that he <em>was <em>a tiny bit infatuated with her innocence and refreshing wit, even if he knew he couldn't have her. Or maybe it was this forbidden factor that made him so attracted to her…

Garak brushed his straying thoughts to the side, hoping they would go away if he focused on his job. The Cardassian tailor straightened the gown on display, wondering if the lighting in his shop captured the colorful cadences of the dress well. He would be delighted to sell this magnificent creation of his to any buyer—but, of course, first, he would be quite pleased to view it on display in his shop for a few days. It was always nice to savor a creation before someone took it off the shelves.

Garak turned over to the alterations that he had promised to finish before tomorrow—alterations that he hoped would maintain his flawlessly punctual record. Chief of Operations O'Brien had complained of a collar that pinched his neck when he closed it all the way, so Garak would begin his work on loosening the neckline for O'Brien's satisfaction. Next, he had tunics to mend, vests to lengthen, and trousers to hem. The day only seemed to be getting busier for the clothier.

Stress started to taint Garak's usually pleasant mood as he craned his neck over O'Brien's uniform, expertly handling the outfit. Garak couldn't help his thoughts from drifting when he worked, which he usually welcomed. His thoughts allowed him entertainment and gave him something to ponder while he labored over his work. Usually his musings were innocent, such as what strange human concept Dr. Bashir had lectured him on at lunch that day or on the champion of yesterday's springball competition. But, today, he couldn't help but notice his thoughts turn to a darker side. _The stress must really be affecting me_, Garak thought as he glanced up at the pile of clothing before him, looking as if they were imploring him to hurry up so he could have them all mended and hemmed on time. Garak fought the urge to tell the clothing to shut up. No—it wouldn't do to find himself talking to inanimate objects again. Not again, like when he'd chastised the flickering light when he'd been between those dreadful walls in that Dominion prison camp. With that thought, he noticed with a grimace that recently his stresses hadn't been quite as overwhelming as when he'd had to crawl inside that wall in the prison, forcing himself to face his claustrophobia and finish the job of rigging a transmitter to save him, Dr. Bashir, Worf, and Martok from the clutches of the Dominion. Of course, Garak had been the only one with any knowledge on how to adjust a transmitter to do his liking, so he had been the only logical choice for the job.

That didn't mean Garak hadn't been terrified out of his mind.

Oh, he had tried to hide it, at first, hoping that he would be able to contain his fears long enough to finish the mission. But, alas, the walls—so dark and foreboding, so _close_, surrounding him…Garak had to close his eyes as he sat at his alteration table, hoping to quell the uneasy feelings coursing through him with the memories.

Garak remembered how he'd worked on very little light, the small, flickering fiber optics only adding to his sense of panic. With every flicker, every sudden dimming of the light, his stomach had dropped to his feet, forcing him to inhale sharply. The darkness that a simple light source had threatened him with and the fear of that darkness, being trapped forever between those walls, had so terrified Garak. After a while of being in that dark, terrifying space, hands shaking, heart pounding, he had been afraid. _Truly _afraid. More afraid than he'd been in a while. More afraid than he'd been during some of his more terrifying, death-defying missions in the Obsidian Order.

Those walls around him would close in on him, crushing him, leaving him with just enough oxygen to breathe enough breaths to keep him alive for as long as it took his brain to register how he was going to die. Trapped in a small space, the darkness, the quiet, those looming walls—those walls would trap him forever. That's how Garak had felt at the time—trapped away from his friends, his exit, _life_. And if they closed his exit…goodness help him, if they closed his only way out of that hellhole, Garak would snap.

Lo and behold, after some time, Garak _had _snapped. But that was only after he had forced himself to be silent as the Jem'Hadar warriors had come looking for Worf, making Bashir close the panel that would trap him inside the horrid enclosure. Garak had made himself close his eyes and clear his mind enough to try and forget about the fear, the pain, the intense worry. After what had seemed like an eternity, the soldiers had left and Garak had speed-crawled out of his dungeon, wanting to get out as fast as possible. But, after a while of resting under "Doctor's orders", he'd had made himself go back in there, knowing it was their only hope.

This time, he'd tried talking to himself, telling himself over and over again that he could be strong. He could get through this alive and in one piece. In his mind, Garak had been sure those walls would trap him like they had so long ago on Tzenketh. His instincts had been going haywire, trying to make Garak _run the hell out of there_, but Garak _had _to remind himself that he was _not _a being of instinct, he was a civilized individual with a disciplined mind, one who knew when to run and when to fight. Listening to his friends' muffled conversing from behind the wall had made Garak feel slightly better. They'd been there, willing to help him if need be. Yes, Garak would fight, if only for them.

Garak remembered the many wires and cables lying bare in the walls, cables that'd felt the need to zap him with every opportune moment. It had almost been like they were trying to reach out to the already terrified Cardassian, adding something more to Garak's fear, something unnecessary and entirely annoying. And it had been so hot—so terribly hot. Usually, his species liked the heat, but this time, the heat was overwhelmingly oppressive. Garak remembered the feeling of sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he had stood between those walls, trying to keep himself from falling into a panic attack. He'd barely been able to admit to himself that he had this psychological disorder, this _problem _in the mind that he would have to conquer to get through this. It was a vulnerability, an annoyance that he didn't need to live with. He wanted to be strong, just as his father, Enabran Tain, had expected. But, the random zaps, the unbearable heat, the enclosed space, his pounding heart, the fear, the agony, the walls, _closing in on me…_

Garak thought those last words as he sat in his shop, hands shaking just from the mere memory of the moment. He closed his eyes, trying to make the memories go away. But they wouldn't. It seemed that one, sadistic part of his consciousness was doing all in its power to force him to relive this moment, to force him to face his fears all over again. It was as if his mind wouldn't leave him alone until he remembered everything he felt, every emotion, every jolt of fear.

Garak blinked his light blue eyes, trying to make the images go away and focus on his work. But, alas, they wouldn't leave until they'd had their time with him…

Garak remembered speaking to himself in low tones, trying to talk himself through the fiasco. And, as he'd spoken to himself, words rushing out of his mouth in a near whisper, Garak couldn't forget that in the midst of his panic, his building terror, Ziyal's name had left his mouth, making his eyes pop open with this new motivation to finish his job in one piece. He'd remembered her words to him before he had left, "…if something were to happen to you, I don't know what I'd do." The helpless expression on her face, the gentle concern… That day, Garak had brushed all these signs of affection away as if he had been brushing away a stray thread from a tunic. Then, as he'd stood between those walls, Ziyal's caring expressions so vivid in his head, he had felt a surge of regret fall upon his already exhausted emotions. He remembered calling her feelings for him "misguided" but now he saw how genuine those feelings had been, how true. Even if her feelings for him _were _misguided, was it so bad if they were genuine, coming from her heart?

These thoughts had allowed Garak a strange moment of peace between those looming walls. He was able to think of something besides being unable to breathe, besides being trapped forever in this close space. He could think of Ziyal.

It was only natural of him to think of her…after all, Garak _had_ promised her that he would come back. And Garak didn't make promises lightly. He would honor his word even if it meant he came back to the station a comatose mess. But, Garak wouldn't let that happen. No. He was stronger than that.

Garak remembered how, despite his optimistic thoughts and the monologue of encouragement he had just spoken to himself—not to mention the reprimands he had told his flickering source of light—it had all become too much for him to handle, too much for him to _breathe_. The light had gone out, sending him into a frenzy. He'd needed room, he'd needed _space_, but he couldn't find it. Desperately, Garak had begun to try to turn around. He'd tried to move, but he remembered being unable to. His need had only become more desperate, more frantic, which had led him to start pounding furiously on the walls beside him in a relentless cacophony, trying to make room for him to do something so simple, yet so unattainable, as _move_. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. He'd wanted the job finished so badly, he'd wanted to _get the hell out_ _so badly_, that he'd snapped, leaving Dr. Bashir to come after him and drag his shaking, useless form out of the wall. In his shop, Garak winced at the thought. He was ashamed of himself. The noise he had been making could have gotten them all caught by the Jem'Hadar, and now where would they be? While Garak might have deserved such a punishment as staying in the prison camp to die like his father had, the rest of them certainly didn't. If it hadn't been for Dr. Bashir to drag him out of the enclosure, recognize his claustrophobic symptoms, and force him to rest for a while, Garak didn't know if he'd be where he was now, back in his place as Deep Space Nine's one and only Cardassian tailor.

After lying huddled on a cot in the corner, staring at that dreaded wall with a haunted look in his eyes, Garak had started to feel the fear begin to seep away. His training had taken over, allowing him to control his emotions long enough to feel at least a semblance of his usual agreeable personality begin to take control. Eventually, after hearing Dr. Bashir and the others talk about forming a Plan B—a plan that Garak knew would never succeed if they'd been able to go through with it, in the first place—Garak had made himself stand up, forced his usual pleasant expression on his face, and made himself crawl back into that godforsaken hellhole. If Worf could fight all those Jem'Hadar and win each time, Garak could fight his troublesome psychological disorder.

Taking one last breath of semi-decent re-circulated prison camp air, Garak had forced himself back into his dungeon, had made himself go back into the heat, the electrocuting wires, and the dark walls that would surely close in on him if he looked the other way. Garak had crawled back into the hole in the wall, formed by forcing a panel loose, and had made his way back to his oh-so-favorite place. A place that he'd known would haunt his waking thoughts for weeks to come.

Of course, to make a bad situation worse, the Jem'Hadar had come looking for him. And, of course, Garak hadn't been where he was supposed to be. He'd been hiding between the walls, forcing any fearful thoughts aside so that he could focus on adjusting the transmitter. The Cardassian had heard Bashir tap twice on the wall, signaling trouble. And Garak had closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, trying to allow the overwhelming stress balled up inside of him to seep out of his fingers and onto the floor. The muffled sounds of demands, then arguing, and then shuffling around had only made Garak even more fearful. He had stood in the shaft, as still as possible, heart beating a wild tattoo in his body. Once again, he hadn't been able to help but think what a wonderful interrogation chamber this could be, one that would be quite effective in breaking him.

Somehow, those nasty Jem'Hadar had found a way to open the wall panel that had led to Garak, making Garak stop breathing in fear. They had found him. It was all over. Every ounce of terror he had just endured had been for nothing.

Despite his pessimistic thoughts, Garak had turned off the light beside his head, hoping it would do him any good.

But, instead of hearing a Jem'Hadar soldier come after the terrified Cardassian, Garak had heard phaser fire. He'd heard fighting, shouting, thumping, and, eventually, silence. Then, with the sound of the Romulan prisoner's voice, Garak had let out his breath in a whoosh. They'd won. And, the words, a product of his relief, had come out of his mouth before he'd been able to stop them: "Doctor, can you keep the noise down? I'm trying to work in here!" It was nice to hear himself sound fairly normal again. The sarcastic words only made Garak feel better.

The sound of hope tingeing his own audacious words had given Garak a surge of confidence, allowing him to finish the job and beam them all back to the runabout. Garak had immediately taken the helm of the craft, not for a moment hesitating to get the hell out of there.

But, he'd done it. Garak had conquered his crippling claustrophobia and had gotten Worf, Bashir, Martok, and himself to safety. And, in a moment of clarity, both the physically tortured Worf and the psychologically tormented Garak had praised each other, mentally noting the amount of effort it had taken the both of them to get out of the Dominion prison camp and back to the relative safety of the Alpha Quadrant.

Garak opened his eyes as his reminiscences faded from view. It seemed that, now that he'd gone through the torture of mentally living the moment again, his mind would allow him to continue with his tailor's work. While Garak hated his claustrophobia, he couldn't help but smile. He had conquered his fear and saved lives—not to mention Ziyal had given him a peck on the cheek on his return home, telling him she'd never doubted he would come back. The mere thought of it sent a rush of pleasure through Garak.

But, also, with a broader smile, Garak realized his time between the walls had allowed himself to see some perspective:

The pile of clothing before him didn't seem so looming and stressful as it had seemed before.

* * *

><p><em>I hope you like. Ok, so I can see if you're claustrophobic this might just be a little painful for you! But, I hoped you enjoyed, nonetheless. This is my first time taking an in-depth look into a characteristic aspect of Garak, so it would be great if you could tell me what you think! Thanks so much for reading! :)<em>


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